


Killing Everyone

by Davechicken



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles leaves the party early, because he doesn't like the attention Bass is getting.</p>
<p>For swietlik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Everyone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swietlik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swietlik/gifts).



'Monroe is easier to say than Matheson'. Seriously. All the myriad reasons he could pick for insisting on calling it the fucking 'Monroe Republic' and he does some dumb shit like how long it takes to say their fucking names. It's not like 'The United States of America' was any fucking shorter. But apparently, that had been enough to silence Bass and get him to nod. Nod and agree and do whatever the fuck Miles wanted. Like he always used to. Nod and smile and say, "Sure, Miles."

Sure, Miles. Sure we'll name it after me even though I didn't want the first place and I thought you were going to get us both killed by going making weird protest stands and shooting people and shit. Sure we'll make me figurehead of this new nation I didn't even want, because it will make you smile. Sure, Miles. Anything you say, Miles.

Miles realises he is being a bit... over the top. Even as he has the almost-empty Bass-glass of whisky mumble happy little yeses to the Miles-bottle in a stupid as fuck puppet show on Bass' desk. And the high-pitched stupid voice they put on is even worse. So he downs the Bass-glass and pours some more into it. Because what he really needs to be? Is more drunk.

He keeps his eye on the desk because if he looks up he will see the brand new flags flying on either side of the doorway. The flags with the large, circled 'M's on. Which of course makes sense.

Yes, Bass, that would be great to use our little secret childhood cool club symbol on everyone's fucking clothes and all the fucking flags. No, of course it makes sense because the M stands for both our names - like it always fucking did - and yes it's a powerful and visceral symbol and it sends the message about might and right and all that shit and just you go ahead and order about seventeen million bazillion of them because it will keep all the non-combatants busy and invested and provide an income and shit. No I don't mind that you're letting fucking strangers in on our little fucking club where it was only ever us. 

It's not like they could have picked anything else as the flag. They weren't all about fucking stars and stripes because - well - fuck it, what had the USA ever done for them? And all those stars used to mean something. And now they didn't. Because what used to be wasn't any more, and it was some brave new fucking world where there wasn't any overall leadership and there wasn't anyone out there prepared to make the tough decisions and there wasn't any right or wrong or good or bad and so why the fuck shouldn't they try and do their best? And if they did their best, why the fuck shouldn't they take the credit?

(Miles didn't want the credit. Not really. He didn't want things to go to hell, but he thought he could just take down the bad guys and save a few people like a wandering good guy or some shit with his best friend and then someone else with brains would come along and go 'Oh look, now you have saved the town, I will re-invent democracy and the police and shit and it will all be fine, here's a fucking big bottle of whisky and some cool shit as a thank you'. Just... no one came along with the cool shit and the whisky was good but left him with a bad head in the morning. And when no one kept on coming he figured that maybe they should do something about that, too.)

So now he's sitting at Bass' desk. Resenting it. Resenting the nice polished finish. And the weird little fucking gay horse book ends or whatever the fuck. And all the trappings of success and power.

It's not like he doesn't have his own desk. Well. He does. Sort of. But he doesn't give a shit enough about it because he's a soldier and he does killing people. And he doesn't need a desk to kill people. At most he needs a big fucking table, a map, and some little pins or tiny figurines (or even, on occasion, salt shakers and buttons, on a map drawn from sharpies and memories). But Bass likes the desk. 

I mean, seriously. Before the lights went out the guy was on his iphone every other minute. And then on his i... whatever. Or his Xbox. The man was permanently glued to anything that was bright and shiny and made noises. Like he was some demented magpie. And now the lights have gone out, he's gone from all that shitty crap to really old crap. Like big chairs. And fucking rugs. Trust Bass to find some new thing to need... trust him not to be happy with just a big bed and a bath. Miles 'accidentally' knocks one of the book ends off the desk when he pours some more whisky out. And smirks at it, even though it didn't break.

But really... he knows the desk is not the issue. Nor is it the flags. It's not even the stupid fucking monstrosity of a floral vomit that hangs in front of the windows, or sprawls all over the beds. (Where the fuck did he even get so much ugly fabric?) It's the fact that before the lights went out... Bass was all his. 

He was. Always. Other people have their romantic stories about how they met the love of their life and were childhood sweethearts and they went for long walks in the park or saw romantic films or said they'd get married at five and did as soon as it was legal. His... his story is a little different. 

Skinned knees and makeshift swords. Nearly drowning in rivers attempting to make a pirate ship out of whatever they found. Bunking off school together and getting grounded, then sneaking out to see one another anyway. Being so impossible to split up that they ended up half-way around the world shooting at people just because if they didn't then they might not be together. 

Because they had to be together. Had to. And when he thinks about their past together, it makes his chest tight with all the ways they are perfect for one another. Makes him remember how Bass was shy the first time someone made him go on stage and how he nearly didn't go on but Miles made him. And Bass made him swear to never tell a living soul about it. (And he hasn't.) Makes him remember how even when he was swearing he was going to live with Emma forever, Bass was still there. Bass was always going to _be_ there. He hadn't quite worked out how, but he knew it was going to happen and Bass wasn't going to leave him.

Makes him remember charging out into blazing heat, with bullets racing dust. With Bass right beside him. Makes him remember the lights going out and nothing - nothing - left in the world. No orders. Nothing. No purpose, just a vague hope his brother might be able to fix it.

And Bass. His Bass. Following him.

But here he is, in Bass' office... and Bass hasn't followed him.

Instead, Bass is downstairs in the great hall. He can't hear it anymore, but he knows the party is still going strong. Knows that Faber will be passed out on the table. Knows that Neville will be chatting up whoever is near him and blonde. Knows Jeremy will be following Bass around like a fucking puppy. 

Knows Bass will be there. The centre of attention. All eyes on him. His name on all their lips. Long live the Monroe Republic. Long live the Monroe Republic.

Miles slams down the glass and grips it tighter and tighter. Makes his hand hurt from holding. 

It was his victory. He won the battle. He had the plan. Led the troops. He laid waste to the enemy troops. Claimed yet more land under the fateful M. But it's not even that people don't realise that. It's not even that Bass doesn't know he won it all for him. A courtship gift. More land for your map. More people for your name. 

It's that Bass is down there, drunk with their adoration. Their loyalty. Their respect. And he no longer looks to Miles like he's the whole fucking world. He built his best friend up and... 

...and now he's pissed off because Jeremy looks at Bass the way Bass used to look at him. And he can see the flickers of appreciation in Bass' too-blue eyes. 

And he wants to smash the man's perfect fucking teeth in.

Which would be wrong.

(Doesn't stop him thinking about it, though. Doesn't stop him imagining walking in on the two of them in some boring meeting and grabbing him by the back of the collar and punching that fucking smug smile off his face and growling 'back off, bitch, he's mine'.)

But he still wants to do it.

Call it the Monroe Republic. That way they can use your soldier name, and leave your real name to me and only me. Bass. My Bass. Mine.

By the time the door opens slightly, Miles is beyond drunk and is working out how to storm his own fucking castle. The stupid props have turned into makeshift sentry-markers, and in the absence of any sensible pen, he's trailed the faintest of lines of whisky over the pristine white sheets of paper to draw the path out.

He's a heartbeat away from throwing something heavy at the intruder, when... Something. Something makes him look up.

To see Bass. His Bass. Fingers curled around the door, head peeking around. Eyes worried.

"Miles?"

Miles grunts noncommittally, and has to lower his eyes.

In the flickering candle-light, Bass' hair looks beautiful. The day has taken it out on him, and his normally perfect curls are all over the place, but that just makes him look even better. His cheeks are pink from all the drinking and singing, and in the half-light his eyes shine.

And no one but Bass Monroe could ever make Miles feel this fucking poetic. No one. The man looks like some toussled Greek god, just come from a revel. Debauched and care-free.

No. Not care-free. There's concern in his eyes.

"You left your party early. As soon as I could get away I came looking for you," Bass explains, pushing the door slightly further open. Miles doesn't know why the man is reticent to enter his own fucking office, but there you go.

"Not my party, Bass. Not my thing."

"Miles... you fucking... you just won the biggest victory we've seen since the Trenton Campaign. You're a fucking hero and everyone loves you. Why are you hiding up here instead of celebrating?"

Nothing Miles could say right now would sound good. Nothing.

"The party was doing just fine without me."

Yeah. Way to sound big and clever.

Bass pushes into the room, now, and lets the door shut behind him. Miles can't help but look up. There's confetti in his hair (and who the fuck thought confetti was a good idea, and where did they even get it? Probably fucking Jeremy) and there's traces of lipstick along his jaw. Thankfully not along his lips, or Miles would probably have to execute any female with red lips he saw for a month.

"I missed you," Bass says simply. And he is Bass. Right now, in this room, he is Bass. Not General Monroe. Not leader of their nation. He's the man who followed Miles everywhere... even here. "If you're not coming down, at least let me stay here with you."

And just like that, the fucker slides around and perches on the arm of his own chair. Smiling that lopsided smile that makes Miles' chest ache every time he sees it. That hopeful look in his eyes that says Miles has the power to make or break him. And... fuck but it hurts.

His hand moves from the glass to Bass' face. Fingers sliding over his cheek, thumb pressing under his jaw. Bass doesn't resist the gesture, and Miles realises he could do anything he fucking wanted and Bass would just take it. It makes him sort of angry and happy at once.

"You let someone kiss you," he settles on, when the angry noise in his head dies down long enough.

"Julia," Bass replies. "You know she gets all power-crazy. She still thinks she can bat her eyelashes and I'll promote Tom."

"But you're not going to." Not a question, but not really an order, either.

"No. And besides, Miles, they are your men. If you want to promote him you can feel free. But only if he's earned it on his own merits."

Which is sort of what Miles wants to hear. Sort of. He uses his thumb to stroke the underneath of Bass' jaw and down to his throat. Bass lets his eyes drift shut and he arches into the touch like a wanton. He's got a six o'clock shadow that snags under his touch, but somehow that just makes him even more fucking gorgeous. Miles lets his hand drift down and suddenly he has his hand wrapped around the man's throat.

"You know I only did it for you, don't you?" Miles asks, his voice rough.

Bass nods, his eyes closed in pleasure, a soft little smile on his lips even as he struggles to breathe.

"All of this... the battles, the Republic..." he leans in to whisper in his ear. "For you."

Bass puts his hands on Miles' arm. Not pulling him off, just holding on. A little strangled noise and another nod. 

"And you repay me by lapping up attention from everyone but me..."

Now Bass' eyes flicker open and look worried. "No," he croaks out.

"Yes," Miles insists. "All for you, and you swan around letting Julia kiss you, or Jeremy flatter you, and you soak up all their attention and forget about me."

"No!" Bass insists, but his eyes look horror struck. "Miles, no..."

"Prove it."

He should feel worse. He should feel worse about putting that pain into Bass' face. He should feel worse about shattering the man's happy night with his petty jealousy. 

But he doesn't.

He wants to see Bass following him about again. Wants to see Bass glance to check they're on the same page when he has to make decisions. Wants Bass to be his... his. Again. Just his. Not time share with the whole fucking Republic.

His.

When he lets go, Bass slinks off the chair and for a minute he hesitates. Miles sees something he's never really seen before. He's seen Bass happy-go-lucky. Seen him angry. Seen him determined. Seen him ready to bend over and beg for Miles to fuck him.

He's never seen Bass fighting the urge to... fight. Him. Play fighting, sure. Rolling around until they work out who will be on top. Handcuffs and power-exchange. Never seen him with such an undercurrent of... what? He's not sure.

But he knows he doesn't like it.

Then whatever it is, it passes. And Bass sinks to his knees beside his own chair. In front of his own desk. And the symbolism is not lost on Miles. Nor is it on Bass, judging by the way his eyes slide over the furniture... and the book end still on the floor.

"Miles... I'm sorry I let Julia kiss me, okay. I was distracted because I was looking for you, and she jumped on me and I didn't have a choice in the matter. I'd shoot her if it would make you feel better, but really I think it would be a mistake."

Bass' tone is sullen and apologetic at once. And Miles realises he's being a fucking dick. 

So he reaches out again. Fingers stroking where he was just holding. Too-tight. He can see the fading marks on Bass' throat. 

"I just don't want to share you, is all," Miles says. And clearly that's a good thing to say, because Bass is leaning into his touch again and he skips a breath or two.

"You don't have to," Bass insists. "I'm only yours."

"Tell that to the Republic," Miles replies. But his smile is wry, now. Because Bass says the nicest of things. And he moans so nicely when Miles combs his fingers through his hair.

"I'll give it all to John. I'll give it all to fucking Julia, if you want. But we might not get to keep the big bed."

"I like the big bed," Miles says stubbornly, and he uses the hand in his hair to pull Bass back up. It's not all that easy but Bass is determined, and in barely any time, the man's straddling his lap in the chair.

"You could take me to it," Bass suggests. "It's not far away."

Miles has other ideas, however. He moves his hands to the front of Bass' shirt, and starts slowly unbuttoning it. "I could."

Bass puts a hand on each shoulder, and Miles can feel the knees pressed against his thighs shaking, slightly. He puts his hands in between the open drape of his shirt and ghosts his fingers over Bass' nipples. They jump to attention, and Bass moans in appreciation.

"Or... you could not..." Bass says, as Miles lowers his head and takes one nipple between his teeth. He holds on tightly, and flickers his tongue over it. Harder. Harder. Hard enough that Bass is digging fingernails into his shoulders and whimpering.

He does that until the man in his arms is frantic. Bass loves being touched. Loves being touched more than anyone Miles has ever met. (Or maybe it's just that he loves being touched by Miles more than anyone else ever did. Which is an even nicer thought.) When he finishes worrying Bass' nipple, it's pink and swollen and it makes Miles think of other things which are pink and swollen.

"You're mine," Miles says, glaring up at him. "Mine. Not theirs."

"Yes," Bass insists. "Oh fuck yes." His cheeks are even pinker now, and Miles can feel the erection pressed between them. Can feel how Bass keeps grinding against him in an attempt to get off. 

"Time you screamed my name to prove it," Miles tells him. And - never sure how - he has an arm around Bass' waist and he pushes to his feet. Bass holds on for dear life as he throws everything off the desk and slams the man down onto it. On his back. Legs wrapped around his hips.

"Miles! Fuck... Miles I am yours I swear I am yours! Fuck, yes!"

Alcohol is a bad thing. Or a good thing. Both. Miles has Bass' belt undone and his trousers shoved off before he can second-guess himself. Bass' hands are clutching the end of the desk and white with their attempt to stay down as Miles bares him. 

"I want you to feel this tomorrow," Miles tells him. "I want you to sit in your fucking briefings and I want you to remember me every time you fucking breathe. I want to own you even when I'm not in the fucking room, Bass. Because you belong to me..."

"Fucking... fuck me already!" Bass pleads. And Miles never thought he'd hear Bass beg for anything, twenty years ago. Never thought he'd hear Bass desperate and hungry like this. Never thought his best friend would turn out to be the best fuck of his life. Never thought he'd enjoy shoving spit-covered fingers in his ass and scissoring the man open. Never thought Bass would make those sounds just for him, and that they would be the best things he ever heard in his life.

"I will." Not the most witty of come-backs. Not the best answer. But Miles doesn't need his mouth to be clever when he's got Bass half naked and writhing like a fucking whore on his desk. Doesn't need to be smart when Bass is incoherently pleading and fucking himself on his fingers. Doesn't need to say anything, because he has his own trousers down and is sliding in and (it's not wise to do this without real preparation, he knows. But that's alcohol for you. And Bass. The man drives him crazy in all the right ways) fuck but the man is tight. Tight and warm and welcoming and perfect.

Bass cries out in mingled shock, love, lust and pain. But mostly love. Miles can tell by the way his eyes go. The way his whole body opens around him. And he's drunk and emotional and Bass is tight and wound and perfect and he knows he won't last long. But he doesn't need to, because perfection can be in a heartbeat as much as in a year. He wraps his hand around Bass' cock and strokes him tight and hard as he pushes into him. Harder, faster, deeper. Fuck.

"MILES!" Bass screams out. "FUCK, YES, I'M YOURS."

And that's all Miles needs to hear.


End file.
